


Battles and Scars

by Athenais_Penelope_Clemence



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006), Robin Hood (Traditional)
Genre: Angst, Battle, Bloodshed, Crusades, F/M, Gen, Mental Anguish, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:55:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athenais_Penelope_Clemence/pseuds/Athenais_Penelope_Clemence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a late night in the Holy Land, like many other nights they spent near the walls of besieged Acre. It was a night when blood and death stalked in the darkness. It was a usual night for Robin of Locksley and his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battles and Scars

**Battles and Scars**

It was a late night in the Holy Land. The night sky was very beautiful and clear in the desert, lighter and darker in different parts of the dark canvas. The pale-green moonlight of Acre shed its weird luster over the dark landscape, giving an air of fabulous mystery to the surroundings.

Sir Robin of Locksley, the Earl of Huntington and captain of the king’s private guard, wasn't sleeping. Robin and his friends spent an evening together in Robin's tent, talking about the siege of Acre and speculating when they would finally capture the city.

This evening, they were having a small feast, enjoying friendly company and a rare moment of peace. Such moments were the healing force for the battle-hardened Crusaders, which was driving out the darkness and dissolving its power over them, bringing them to a place of temporary peace and calm.

On the table in the middle of the tent lay a partially eaten small feast: a roasted pheasant, various cheeses and a half empty bottle of wine; the king didn't approve of excessive drinking, but he also didn't protest if his men indulged themselves in the pleasantries of life from time to time.

Sir Edmund of Cranfield, the Earl of Middlesex and Robin's second-in-command, thought that they would be able to capture the city in several months. Sir Robert de Beaumont, the Earl of Leicester and the captain of the second guard, doubted Edmund's words, saying that the siege machines broke holes into the walls of Acre many times, but Saladin's army attacked the city after every breach, giving the garrison of Acre a chance to repair the damage. Sir Thomas Leighton of Stretton was more skeptical, stating that they would probably capture Acre in the coming year.

Much, Robin's ever-loyal manservant, sat on the edge of his narrow bunk, looking down at a large platter of goose and stew, which he was holding in his arms. His stomach rumbled, and he smiled at the sight of delicious food. As he ate, he watched Robin drink wine with small sips, enjoying its taste. He wasn't listening to the talk about the war. Every time he heard something about the capture of Acre, he was overcome by tremendous melancholy. He hated Acre and the Holy Land, and he began to believe that they would never take the damned city and would never come back home, to Locksley.

Suddenly, Robin stiffened and then frowned, peering out into the semi-darkness. "What is it?" He placed a goblet on the table. His frown intensified, his expression worried. "The clash of metal, right?"

Much shrugged. "Maybe fighting?"

There was a hissing clash of metal upon metal somewhere in a distance. Swords clashed, and people screamed. Metallic sound was becoming louder and louder, and cries of agony came from outside the tent, joined now by shouts of alarm.

"Saracen attack! Saracens in the camp!" one of the king’s guards shouted.

"The attack on the camp!" another guard warned.

"Bloody hell," Robin cursed.

"Damn these Saracens," Edmund cursed.

"Excellent end of the evening, but nothing unusual," Thomas growled.

"The king!" Robin immediately sprang to his feet and grabbed his bow, a bundle of arrows, and his scimitar. "Much, Edmund, and Thomas, you will go with me to King Richard's tent."

Robert and Robin shared brief glances, silently coordinating the course of action.

"My men and I will protect the king’s tent from the back and will surround the area," Leicester barked, and stormed out of the tent.

In a moment, Robin rushed to the exit with Much, Edmund, and Thomas behind him. Robin and his friends ran towards the king’s tent. They heard the rumble of running and marching feet, and then a wave of the noise burst forth from the darkness – the ululating scream of _‘Allah! Allah! Allah!’_

"Everyone out of the tents! Out! Out!" Robin screamed over and over again.

"Leave the tents! Leave!" They heard Robert de Beaumont's screams in the other part of the camp.

They caught glimpses of the Saracens running into the tents of the sleeping Crusaders. They heard the dying cries of their own men killed in their sleep on their makeshift beds. Still sleepy, many guards grabbed their weapons and ran outside, catching themselves in the dark chaos around and immediately starting to fight; many of them even didn't wear a chainmail, having no time to dress it.

"Out! Out!" Robin glared frantically around as he ran. "Get out of the tents!"

They headed to the king's tent located in the central part of the camp. The noise grew louder and louder, yet they didn't see all the intruders and couldn’t estimate the real extent of the danger. Finally, a solid wave of the Saracens emerged from the eastern part of the camp, which faced the walls of Acre. The camp was overrun with ghostly figures, barely visible in the darkness.

There was a bloodthirsty massacre near King Richard's tent: more than thirty Saracens were involved in the fierce fight with around twenty king's guards, and more battle cries were heard in the distance, signaling that there were many more enemies around. The Crusaders’ camp was attacked by a large army of the Saracen mercenaries.

"Hurry! The king's tent! Now!" Robin commanded, taking several arrows from Much's arms.

Robin ran faster and faster, his heart pounding frantically in his chest, nearly breathless with anxiety and rage that scalded through him, nearly blinding him with its sharpness. He had no time to stop near the outnumbered Crusaders fighting near the king's tent. The king's life was his first priority.

"Edmund, join Leicester from the back of the king's tent!" Robin ordered, his sharp, clear gaze fixing on the corpses near the king's tent. "Hurry! The king's tent!"

Robin stormed inside the king's tent, followed by Much and Thomas. The picture before their eyes was unbelievable and spine-chilling: the weaponless King of England stood rooted near his bed, surrounded by three Saracen assassins, one of them pressing the blade to Richard's throat.

King Richard was fearless in spite of being defenseless and surrounded by his would-be murderers. He didn't look frightened and panic-stricken at all in the eyes of death. His expression was confident and cold, and it turned sarcastic as his gaze fell on the smug face of his wound-be murderer.

The young captain knelt down and hastily drew his bow; Thomas and Much crouched behind him, waiting with baited breath for Robin's shooting.

Robin tried to steady his breathing, to keep himself from trembling. His body was shaking with the intensity of emotions, which threatened to take over him, his heart beating so fast that he was certain it was going to explode. With a great deal of effort, Robin took a hold of himself, knowing that he was the only man who could save the king's life at that moment; only he could make a deadly accurate shot that would cause the blade slip from the assassin's arms.

Robin took a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart, and then he targeted the blade at the king's throat, pulled back his bow cord a couple of inches to his ear and fired an arrow. It flew straight and true at the last minute before the Saracen was about to slice Richard's throat. The sword dropped to the ground, and Richard ducked, his eyes scanning the tent and briefly locking with Robin's.

King Richard chuckled. "Well done, Robin."

"Always welcome." Robin thought that he heard a note of pride in his liege's voice.

Still weaponless, King Richard took a step back from one of the assassins who lunged at him with a diagonal blow. At the same time, Robin's arrow struck the foe at the base of his throat, flinging him down to the ground with gouts of blood spurting from his mouth. Richard cast a brief glance of gratitude at Robin, and then he swiftly began to move towards the table where his sword lay on.

At Robin's order, Much and Thomas drew their swords and charged into the battle, flying at the speed of velocity towards the king who already had his sword in his arms and was fighting with two assassins simultaneously. Six more Saracen assassins forced entry from the back side of the tent, but they were stopped and attacked by several other Crusaders.

Robin nocked an arrow and then two more in the backs of the two assassins who rushed after King Richard. Robin released another arrow, for he had to let the king reach his weapons and kill the Saracens who tried to surround the lion. The next wave of arrows dropped like killing hail, the steel points of the arrows slamming the assassins' necks and hearts.

King Richard finished off two Saracens, only to be attacked by another assassin. He crushed an overhead blow at his enemy, skewing his face and the plunging his sword through his skull. Then turned around and swung his sword at the second dark-skinned man. He smiled with a satisfied smile at the corpses near him, but all at once he was attacked by the two more enemies.

"Protect the king!" Robin's voice rang in the air. "Protect the king!"

His eyes fixed on the king, Robin shouted orders to form a circle around the king to the guards, who appeared in the entrance with bloodied swords in their arms. In a moment, the king was surrounded by the king’s men who shielded their liege from the few assassins who still remained in the tent.

As soon as the battle inside the king’s tent was over, Robin ordered several guards to stay in the royal tent and protect the king while he and the others would be fighting with the Saracens outside.

The battle with the Saracen assassins was a sheer butchering, cruel and insane, not a small Saracen raid, but an organized large raid of the small Saracen army on the camp. Each party was mercilessly butchering the enemies, slicing into faces, hands, chests, and backs with their swords.

"Form the double line of protection around the king's tent!" Robin ordered Edmund, who nodded at him; he knew that he had to fight in the battle, but he had to ensure the king's safety.

Robin observed more Saracens dismounting and launching a ferocious attack on the tightly compressed forces of the Crusaders in the area around the king's tent. He also noticed more Saracens gathering nearby, as if they were going to launch a direct attack on the king's tent. The Crusaders were swiftly surrounded by swarms of Saracens, who appeared as if from nowhere and leaped from their horses to charge in a solid block towards the Christians.

Undoubtedly, there were more than two hundred attackers already in the camp, and approximately the same number of the fighting Crusaders among them. Many other Crusaders only started fighting, but many Saracens were also arriving at the camp. Soon the king's men were squeezed even more tightly in the region of the royal tent, something Robin wouldn’t have considered possible if he didn't know that there were several traitors in the private guard who had sold them to the Saracens.

"Charge them! For King Richard! For England!" Robin shouted in Norman-French at the top of his voice. He repeated the same in English, then.

Blood and death mingled in the fire-flashing crimson darkness and permeated the air, burning Robin’s nostrils. Robin drew his scimitar and rushed into the battle like a madman, roaring the battle cry _‘Deus vult!’_ , and it was repeated by the countless voices of the king's men. He faded away like a shadow, swiftly as a flash of light and noiselessly as a panther. Much, Edmund, and Thomas had to strain their eyesight before they caught a glimpse of Robin's scimitar flashing silver in the darkness.

From the corner of his eye, Robin noticed the Earl of Leicester leading his men into the battle as they broke through the human mass of the fighting men in an irresistible rolling wave to the right from the king's tent. Swinging his sword at the dark-skinned enemies, Leicester barked commands in Norman-French, his voice urgent and clear, to surround the area of the Crusaders’ camp and form the third thick protective line around the king's tent, so that no assassin could find a loophole and, using chaos of the battle, try to assassinate Richard and his protectors who waited inside.

Moving swiftly and swinging his sword at the assassins, Robin could visualize their dark faces as his enemies stalked forward and lunged at him, brandishing their scimitars in front of him. He didn't care whom he would kill and that he himself could die in the massacre, for he would die for King Richard, for England, and for his friends and comrades – an honorable death for a knight.

Concentrating intently on wasting no time on thinking, even to glance around and look out, Robin charged out and forward into the teeth of the enemies, who, surprised by his fierce assaults, ducked and recoiled from him, obviously unprepared for anything of the kind. His blows were deadly and the Saracens fell one by one as his sword slashed and sliced through them.

Much, Thomas, and Edmund slowly made their way to the heart of the battle, surrounding Robin from all sides. As usual, Much stood back-to-back with Robin, protecting his best friend and killing anyone who dared attack him; his own hand was injured and he was in slight pain, but he neglected it and fought like a possessed man, killing all of his dark-skinned opponents attacking him. Thomas was fighting at Robin's right side, expertly slicing the assassins deeply into their bodies. Edmund stood at Robin's left, aggressively attacking the Saracen and defending himself and his friends.

In the heat of the battle, Much killed everyone who dared attack Robin, protecting his master and thinking that he was in hell. He hated massacres and slaughter. He hated the Holy Land, but he fought there alongside the king and Robin because he had to protect Robin from the danger of all kinds. He saw it his mission to be always at Robin's side and was ready to give his own life for Robin.

Much often caught glimpses of Robin, Thomas, and Edmund embroiled in the fierce fight. They killed and killed, professionally and mercilessly, as if they didn’t hear to cries of the dying and injured men. Thomas and Edmund’s small smiles betrayed their true feelings – they were enjoying bloodshed, and it made Much's blood run cold. Flatness and sharp focus in their blank gazes shocked him to the core, for it was the first time when he saw only cruel and trained soldiers in them, without a soul and a heart.

But it was not Thomas, Edmund, or any other Crusader who intrigued Much most of all – it was Robin. Much knew that Robin could kill easily, almost automatically, cutting life out of an enemy and immediately turning to another enemy. Robin was like Ares with a sword, the Greek God of war, his fighting style and blows being unspeakably beautiful, extremely complicated, immensely adroit, and very unique. Much envied Robin's outstanding fighting skills with a bow and a sword. He had always wanted to be like Robin and fight as good as Robin could, but it was so only until they came to the Holy Land and when he had seen what Robin could do on the battlefield despite all infamous humanity. At times, Robin's fighting skills and Robin himself frightened Much.

Much was impressed and frightened. As he fought next to Robin, he watched his master mercilessly slaughtering Saracens in startled awe. When his scimitar penetrated his enemy's flesh and another life was fading away, Robin's gaze was blank and somewhat uncanny, and a tiny smile – painful or satisfied, but more likely ambivalent – was quirking in the corners of his mouth. But even his gaze and smile were not the most shocking and unusual things for Much.

During the massacre, Robin's expression was the clearheaded, unearthly detachment from the world when Robin killed, killed, and killed like a demon-possessed man. He changed from a peacemaker into a professional soldier and a brutal killer, mechanically displaying his darkly beautiful fighting style and killing. In such moments, Robin had no feelings, no heart, no soul, and even no understanding of reality, as if he were not conscious of his own actions. His eyes were sharp, blank, and yet extraordinarily bright. There were no inner fire and no teasing glint in Robin’s orbs, which he usually had in normal time. Robin was darkness, and darkness was him – they were interchangeable.

After the battle was over, the king assembled the men and made a long speech about the massacre in the camp. It was decided that they would move the Crusader camp tomorrow because the area was overwhelmed by the bodies of dead Crusaders and the Saracens. The king praised Robin and thanked him for the salvation of his life, giving him another medal for bravery and valor in the battle. Then Robin ordered to bury the corpses of the fallen warriors in the unmarked common graves in the desert and retired to his tent, with Much trailing behind his master step by step.

It was hard to fall asleep on that night, but the fingers of sleep crept over Robin, and the boundaries of the world dissolved: the things he saw in his dreams and the things that had happened outside tonight mingled in his conscience. He dreamt of himself in the image of the Crusader slaughtering the Saracens with a smug smile on his face. The visions in his dreams were dreadful. He saw rivers of blood flooding on the yellow sand that was turning crimson. He hankered to run away to avoid drowning in a sea of blood, but wherever he went, corpses of dead Saracens and severed limbs clogged his path.

Robin envisioned that he finally found someone's horse of dazzling white color, as if it were a symbol of purity. He thought that he would escape and leave death behind. Robin could see himself mount and begin to make the way through the human debris. The horse was galloping across the battlefield, blood splashing over its hooves and fetlocks, its white mane stained with blood. Robin fled the battlefield and rode off into the desert, but innumerable graves were fully carved into the sandy ground.

The ferocity of the nightmare increased, and Robin shuddered, tossing his head on the soft pillows. He saw himself riding further and further away from the battlefield. Yet, the images around him made him shudder with double strength as his eyes were taking in the flickering sight of corpses, chopped off heads, and severed limbs lying unheeded and unburied on the sand. Nothing changed as his horse covered more and more miles – death and bloodshed were everywhere, and distant drums beat out the rhythms of death. Robin was trapped, not knowing in which direction to ride to escape.

The longer his dream continued, the more Robin was tormented by disgust mingled with fear. He awoke with a loud, almost wild scream. He sat up in a bed, staring into the emptiness and tipping his head back against the cool headboard of his bed. Much also awoke and rushed to his master.

"Master, how are you?" Much asked worriedly as he approached Robin's bed.

Robin managed a weak smile. "And how can I feel after such… terrible bloodshed?"

The captain closed his eyes, though it made no difference. Despair squeezed him so tight that his body longed to empty itself: the wine from his stomach, the tears from his eyes, and even the blood from his veins. Only Much's presence in the tent kept him from complete emotional collapse.

"Master, I cannot sleep at all," Much confessed.

Robin smiled. "Take a seat there," he said, showing on the chair near the bed.

"It was a horrible and bloody massacre," Much said as he settled comfortably in a nearby chair.

Robin's expression was impassive, but his eyes full of vulnerability and pain. "Much, I know that we were trying to defend our king, and we had to kill so many people today." He paused for a moment. "And yet… all this bloodshed is for nothing."

"Why, Master? We protected the king."

"The Holy Land belongs to the Christians, the Jews, and the Saracens – it doesn't belong only to us," Robin said firmly. "And the more we fight here, the more I regret coming to the Holy Land."

"Master, I want to go home," Much complained.

Robin stared at Much, his eyes bright with unshed tears and his expression no longer composed. "You cannot imagine how much I want to go home."

Robin swallowed hard. His eyes were now shimmering with tears of pain and guilt, which he had been holding in check with all the restraint which he had been capable of mastering only a moment ago.

"I was naïve to think that I would find glory if I fight for the king," Robin uttered in a hollow voice, looking at Much, tears trickling down his pale cheeks. "There is no glory on the battlefield."

"Master, don't be so frustrated."

"I must be frustrated, Much. I wanted to fight for the king in the Holy Land. You only followed me – I dragged you to this hell-hole," Robin said in a weak voice.

"You know I would have always followed you everywhere."

"I know, Much." Tears were shimmering in Robin's eyes as he locked his gaze with Much’s, his heart filled with so much grief and pain he thought it might burst. "We have to kill the infidels who attack us at Saladin's order; they are our enemies. But I cannot understand why there is… always bloodshed… everywhere." His was voice shaking with emotions. "Why do people always fight and spill blood?"

There were tears in Much's eyes, too. He looked at his master and realized in that moment how very much vulnerable and weak Robin felt. He knew that Robin had been a sensitive man with a tender heart, but he had a few chances to see Robin's naked soul who had always preferred to hide his true emotions from everyone and from the whole world.

"Master, don't try to understand the world. You will end up with a broken heart."

"Much, I don't understand many things, and it… hurts that I am so lost," Robin murmured.

Much squeezed his master's hand. "Don't blame yourself for taking so many lives today."

"I will gladly give my own life for King Richard. I will fight to defend my king and England and all of you," Robin proclaimed. He sucked in his breath, and tears appeared in his eyes. "But I am… so tired of fighting. I hate death and bloodshed. Will I ever be able to live without death around me?"

Robin stiffened. A choked sob tumbled from his lips. Then he felt Much reaching out for him, pulling him close into an embrace, burying his face into his shoulder. Robin didn't mind that he was now in the tight embrace of his manservant, for he needed some comfort of the man who understood him.

"Shhh, Master. It will be alright," Much whispered to the distraught master.

"I am… so tired." Robin wrapped his arms around Much's back, clinging to him and sobbing.

"Shhh," Much murmured, hugging Robin with one hand, his other hand tenderly stroking the gorgeous mane of sandy-colored hair. "In the morning, you will feel better. You will forget this night – it will be only like one of many bloody battles we survived through in these lands."

Robin shook his head. “I will never forget the Holy Land, and neither will you, my friend,” he said. He was trembling all over; he hugged Much tighter to himself. “We have been through too many battles. We have too many scars…” His voice sounded too hollow – it was a voice of a dead man, who could breathe in and out but who was half dead inside.

A fat tear trickled down Much’s cheek. “Master, you will be alright. You are Robin of Locksley, and this name means everything! You are strong, and you will survive!”

“We will survive,” Robin corrected. Then a scream of anguish rose up from his mouth, and he trembled in Much’s arms. “I cannot do this without you. I cannot, Much.”

Much continued stroking Robin’s hair; he pressed his master closer to himself, knowing that Robin was trying to find a shelter in their embrace. “I will never leave you, Master,” he whispered into Robin’s ear.  

Fresh rears filled Robin’s eyes as he was slowly sliding into depths of despair. Robin let himself weep, not caring that Much could see his emotional breakdown. It was the first time in his life when he allowed himself to be so vulnerable in the presence of his manservant, and he doubted that he would ever be able to be so frank with Much again. But today it didn’t matter because Robin just needed to take the pain out of his system.

Robin sobbed like a child for a long time, and his ever-loyal Much was always at his side. Tomorrow a new day would come, and they would continue fighting for the capture of Acre at the pointless war, both dreaming to survive and return to England. But Robin and Much were not only a master and his loyal manservant – _they were brothers-in-arms, a captain_ _and his loyal soldier_ , and, in a way, they were more than brothers. Nothing else mattered at that moment.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that you liked this story.
> 
> This is a short story about Robin Hood and Much set in the pre-series. Undoubtedly and unfortunately, I don't own any characters and the show. In addition, several characters are introduced by myself.
> 
> This is one-shot I wrote some time ago, using some other things I wrote about Robin. I have always been interested in Robin’s life during the crusades, and I like stories about Robin in the Holy Land.
> 
> We saw the glimpse of dark Robin. I have always thought that on the show Robin was fighting with the undercurrent darkness which had always been present in his heart but which he buried deeply inside himself and usually controlled very well. Robin had the natural instincts of a killer, for he was deadly with a sword and a bow, he fought in the Holy Land and he killed many Saracens, but he still managed to control the darkness in himself when he was in Nottingham. I respect Robin for his self-restraint and his ability to suppress his killing instincts when it was so easy for him to kill.
> 
> Thomas Leighton of Stretton is Carter’s brother; he is not dead yet.Edmund of Cranfield, the Earl of Middlesex, is a fictional character. Robert de Beaumont, the Earl of Leicester, is a real historical personality, one of King Richard’s favorites on the Third Crusade.
> 
> Thank you for reading his story. I would be very grateful for reviews.


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